


Competition

by Annabelle_W



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Dates, Fluff, Love Triangles, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-08-26 07:07:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabelle_W/pseuds/Annabelle_W
Summary: When Gabriel realizes that both he and Castiel are in love with Sam, he proposes that they both try to win the hunter.  Never mind that Sam is completely oblivious.  (And Dean isn't).





	1. Candy and confidences

Gabriel's POV:

I don't belong in the Bunker. I've never much cared for underground spaces--angels don't, as a rule--and my dislike has only grown more intense after my years of imprisonment by a cartoonish Prince of Hell I also gained an appreciation for the finer things during my centuries masquerading as a Trickster and the Bunker is, at best, utilitarian. The Winchesters aren't big on luxury, apparently. Still, I keep coming back. Something draws me here.

Or someone.

Across the room, Sam is leaning over Jack's shoulder, showing my nephew (I still can't get over how bizarre it is that I have a nephew) how to hack police records. Or illegally download Taylor Swift cds. Or virtually rob banks (or however a couple of unemployed hunters manage to always have enough money to live on. Plus enough extra to purchase copious amounts of alcohol.) Anyway, I'm certain that the sweet little nephilim is getting an excellent education for a future life as a criminal (or a hunter). Something tells me I'll never visit him at a suburban home, where he lives with his wife and three children. Not in the cards for an adopted Winchester.

Sam finishes his lesson and straightens up to his full, considerable height. His red plaid shirt stretches over his wide shoulders, straining the buttons on his chest. The sleeves are rolled up over powerful bronze forearms. He lifts one huge, long-fingered hand to brush his dark hair off his beautiful face, his eyes sparkling as he smiles affectionately at his half-human student.

I distract myself by popping a Lindt truffle in my mouth. I adopted Loki's sugar habit when I borrowed his identity--and altered my (middle-eastern) vessel's appearance to look like him. Candy tastes like molecules to me, but I can appreciate texture. The milk chocolate truffle is decadently smooth. I close my eyes, my pleasure enhanced by the mild zing from the sugar and the masculine scent of the gorgeous man several tables in front of me.

"Do you have any nougat?"

I jump, my eyes popping open. Jack is bouncing next to me, every inch the toddler he is in years if not form. "Sure, kid." I smile. "Here." I hand him a Three Musketeers. He prances excitedly off with it.

Sam strolls toward us, hands in his pockets. "You can only have one. You don't want to spoil your dinner. Dean's making steak." His fond twinkle belies the sternness of his tone, showing how much he is Jack's dad (by choice instead of blood).

I quickly stand up. "Do you want one?" I snap my fingers: a pile of candies of all flavors, varieties, and origins materializes on the table. Selecting a Ghirardelli square (milk chocolate caramel), I unwrap it and slip it as slowly as possible into my mouth. 

He huffs a laugh at my lasciviousness. "I think I ate too many sweets as a kid. I just don't like them anymore." An expression of disgust crawls up his face. "They kind of make me sick." He looks regretful for a moment. "I'm sure Dean will want some though." He heads out of the library, presumably to find his brother, passing my brother on his way out.

Castiel's eyes dart quickly between the two of us. He raises an eyebrow.

*

I'm not surprised when Cas comes to find me later that night, after the insomniac Winchesters finally headed to their rooms. I'm perched on the roof, sucking on a butterscotch lollipop and wishing the subtle zing from the sugar was something stronger. Maybe I'll raid the liquor cabinet later. 

"If you keep looking at Sam like that, Dean is going to stab you with the archangel blade." Cas' tone is even, but his posture is tense under his lightly billowing tan trench coat.

I scoff. "It wouldn't kill me." Dean being terrifying but entirely human.

Earnest blue eyes search mine. "No, but it will hurt. Likely incapacitate you for some time."

I consider this. The last time I was seriously wounded (while in the Bunker), Sam took care of me, told me he needed me. Those lovely eyes brimming with sincerity. "Might be worth it." 

Cas plops down beside me. "Do you know how long it takes to regain Dean's trust?" His wings are quivering, feathers rustling against each other.

"I'm guessing you do." I finish my lollipop, chase it with some jelly beans.

He nods, doesn't elaborate. 

A vague memory surfaces. Asmodeus ranting that a seraphim had powered up using souls pilfered from Purgatory and declared himself god. Could that have been sweet little Cas?

My brother shifts impatiently, irritation fluffing his feathers. "We need you as an ally," he declares. "Don't alienate Dean."

Suddenly, I'm irritated, too. I can feel my eyes flash blue as I hop to my feet. "I get that Dean is overprotective, and I get that he doesn't want some angel perving on his brother" Cas inexplicably winces "but Sam is an adult. He's a thirtysomething man who can make his own choices." I take a breath. "What if he likes me, too?"

Cas stiffens, every feather standing on end.

It clicks. "You want him, too," I breathe. "I thought . . . I thought Dean . . . ?" 

He rises slowly to his feet. "Dean is my best friend. He's my brother."

I frown, not seeing the problem. All angels are technically siblings but that doesn't stop us from occasionally striking up a relationship. It's not incestuous in the same way it is for humans, not unless . . . .

"I consider him my flock-mate." His eyes flash defiantly, daring me to contradict him.

Angels were created in batches, flocks. Cas is claiming Dean as more truly his brother than I am. Or any angel who did not come into being at the same time as he. "But you don't see Sam that way."

His face reddens. "No."

I snap my fingers, summoning a glass of Moscato, and take a sip. "So we're both in love with the younger Winchester?--What an unexpected development."

He's unamused. "That's one way to put it."

A thought strikes me. "Maybe we should both try to win him." I grin. "May the best angel win." Plans for courting the gorgeous hunter flit through my mind.

Cas frowns so hard I wonder if the lines creasing his forehead will split his skin. "What if neither of us wins?"

He's considering playing this game with me? My grin widens. "Then we'll have both grown closer to him. And had fun doing it." 

He startles.

I waggle my eyebrows. "Not that." I pause. "Well, maybe that. If one of us is lucky."

His eyes sparkle with a mix of hope and desire. Is he imagining a naked Sam?--I know I am. A moment later, his face shutters. "What about Dean? I won't court Sam if it means losing Dean."

I hesitate. Dean isn't likely to be pleased when he figures out what's going on. Still, he and Cas bicker all the time. They're too similar in some respects, not similar enough in others. Also, "Doesn't Dean want Sam to be happy?"

Cas cocks his head, face curious and strangely innocent for someone who has spent the past decade palling around with the jaded Winchesters.

"Look, you and I are going to be doing everything we can to please Sam, which should also please Dean. Win-win." I finish my drink with a flourish.

His face clears. "Okay." He holds up a hand. "But only because I think Sam deserves to be courted--to know that he is valued." He holds out a hand for me to shake.

This is going to be so much fun!


	2. New

Castiel's POV:

Once, before the Winchesters were ever thought of, or even imagined by anyone other than my father, when the world was warmer and overrun with giant wingless toothy birds, I followed Gabriel to the area of the Earth now known as Montana. The archangels were all huge, powerful, unimaginably beautiful. Terrifying. Still, Gabriel radiated warmth, with his golden wings, kind eyes, mischievous smile. What made him so different from his cold, distant brothers?

I found him perched on a boulder, snapping his fingers every so often, altering (temporarily) the landscape around him. Green vegetation swirled into orange spirals. A fearsome t-rex forgot his prey when he started to dance, his feathers and scales shifting into a lurid purple. (I believed him millions of years later when he insisted that Barney the Dinosaur was his idea). Bubbles of water vapor bounced around him in a vivid pink maelstrom. 

"Enjoying the show, little brother?" Amused golden eyes met mine. "Which one are you?"

"Castiel," I replied, and ran.

I expected to be reprimanded (or worse) but I wasn't. Gabriel paid no more attention to me than he did to all of the other angelic pawns. I was of no importance to him until the day we came face to face as a result of our mutual fascination with the Winchesters.

How can I hope to compete with someone so far above me?

Why did I allow him to convince to?

I hear a quiet patter of footsteps, look up to see Sam walking into the kitchen (where I'm leaning against a counter while pondering my inadequacies). He's wearing loose black sleep clothes, his luxurious hair is a riotous mess, the skin around his yawning mouth is unshaven, his multicolored eyes are open by the barest of slits. It's a wondrously pulchritudinous sight.

He notices me mid-yawn and smiles, his soul sparkling within his chest. "Morning, Cas." Tendrils of brightness spiral out of his shining core, reaching for me: clear proof of the sincerity of his cheerful greeting.

I want to bask in the light of that soul. I also want to rub my vessel's sensitive human hands all over that glorious body, smooth the tangles out of that voluminous hair, press my mouth against those pink lips . . . .

This is why I agreed when Gabriel suggested we seek to win the younger Winchester. My longing for Sam overrode my rationality.

*

"Hello, Dean."

My best friend glances up, quickly closes his laptop (though not before I hear the telltale sighs and moans informing me of his porn consumption). "Hey, Cas. What's up?"

I refrain from the impulse to take him literally and examine the ceiling. It took me years to understand human phraseology. Why can't they just say what they mean? "I want to purchase some new clothes."

"Finally." He manages to convey ten years of irritation over my (largely) unchanged look into one word. "There's a Walmart near the center of town." He pulls a wad of cash out of his desk drawer, peals off several twenties, pushes them into my hand.

"Will you go with me?" I place a hand on the same shoulder I burned when I rescued him from Hell, looking at him hopefully while taking a moment to clear out the damage done to his liver, lungs, and arteries since the last time I healed him.

Dean's eyes widen as his face drains of color. I've seen him face hoards of angry, hungry monsters without fear, but apparently a shopping trip fills him with terror. "Why don't you take Jack?" he suggests so quickly his words meld together. "You could pick up some supplies while you're there."

*

My observations of human behavior coupled with the pop-culture and literary knowledge gifted me by Metatron had me originally planning to surprise Sam with red roses. But Sam only seems interested in flowers so far as they help with identifying and defeating monsters. The only plants he shows any excitement over are of the edible variety.

However, many of the romantic movies my late colleague forced me to experience contain a moment where the hero sees his love interest dressed differently than she normally is and realizes he's attracted to her. My favorite of these is the scene in She's All That, when Zach watches Laney walk down the stairs in her new red dress. I'm not planning on purchasing a red dress, but I can still mimic that event.

I hope it doesn't bother Sam that my vessel isn't female.

Jack is pushing the shopping cart, collecting various food items. Ground beef, pasta, bread, coffee, frozen pizza. Beer, of course. I pause in the produce section. Sam likes fruit and vegetables. I should get him some. I pick up a red pepper, move to place it in the cart.

"No." Jack is shaking his head. "They don't have the best veggies here. There's a farmer's market down the road that Sam likes."

My lips curve slightly upward. 

*

Jack suggests I change into my new outfit before heading inside the Bunker. I quickly comply, not bothering to inform him that I already planned to do so, replacing my tan trench coat, navy suit, white shirt, and blue tie with jeans and a soft blue sweater over a periwinkle polo shirt. Jack helped me pick them out, insisting that the color brings out my eyes.

I take a deep breath through my vessel's strong lungs before opening the heavy, steel door.

"Come on, Castiel, let's show everyone your new look." Jack's face glows with adorable earnestness.

I march through the door, start walking down the stairs.

Dean is lounging against the wall, sipping a beer. He gives me a quick, approving once-over and a thumbs up. Good to know the best friend with whom I am so often at odds sides with me on this. This incredibly minor issue of a wardrobe change. That has me apprehensive.

Gabriel pops into visibility, lounging with his feet on the table, nibbling caramel corn. He smirks, winks. Golden feathers quiver with amusement.

Sam walks in.

"Oh, hey, Cas, Jack. You two are back. Did you get any . . . ?" Hazel eyes widen. Chiseled jaw drops. Long arms loosen, dropping three books, his laptop, his phone. He blinks, looking down, tanned face reddening.

"Here you go, Samshine." In a flash of gold too fast for human eyes, Gabriel catches Sam's belongings, hands them to him in a neat, careful pile.

I trudge down the final four steps. Only a few years ago, I could do that. But it will be a very long time, maybe centuries, before my wings have fully regrown and my grace completely replenished. 

When I reach the floor, I dare to look up. Sam is smiling at me. "I love that sweater," he says.


	3. The Imitation Doctor

Gabriel's POV:

How to woo a Winchester? Sam is a complicated man in so many ways. I almost wish I'd fallen for Dean, instead. The older hunter might be the straightest man I've ever met, but his tastes, his desires, are simple. He wants a curvy, personable woman with a talent for baking pies. I'm a cheerful guy who can produce excellent pastries with a snap of my fingers. And I could alter my appearance to look female easily enough. Angels can't reproduce (with each other), so gender is merely a form of classification for us. The true forms of female angels are slightly smaller, softer, rounder. They are somewhat more likely to choose female vessels. Just like male angels are more likely to choose male vessels. But we're perfectly comfortable with either option.

And those of us who have been on earth long enough to appreciate sex tend to be equally attracted to both men and women.

The beauty of the Winchesters is nearly as legendary as their accomplishments. It's no wonder that so many of us are infatuated with one or both of them.

*

I find Sam alone in his room. A rarity. For someone so obviously introverted, Sam spends a curiously large amount of time surrounded by others. His brother. My brother (does he see Cas as another brother or something more intimate?). Jack. Mary, Bobby, Charlie, Rowena (how strange is it that I'm crushing on a man who has slept with the same woman as I?). Jodi, Donna. And on and on it goes. If there's anyone who might possibly need his help or merely his attention, he's there, selflessly giving up his leisure time--no matter how desperately he needs to recharge.

No, I didn't just fall for Sam's pretty face.

Although he really does have a pretty face. One lock of wavy hair is falling over his cheek, shadowing one slanted hazel eye. He tosses his head to dislodge it, not removing his attention from the ancient leather-bound book on his lap. Two more tomes are piled beside where he's sprawled on his bed, while his laptop perches somewhat precariously near the edge. That bed is way too small for a man his size.

I should really leave Sam to his solitude, maybe send him to sleep, so he can get the rest he's been denying himself. But I can't charm a man if I don't spend time with him. So, I waltz into his room, ruby roses materializing in my wake. "What'cha up to, Samster?"

Hazel eyes blink at me, surprised. "I'm researching werewolf pack dynamics. And comparing them to vampire nests." He gestures to his books and his computer. 

"Geronimo!" A cheery British-accented voice crows behind me.

I whip around. Matt Smith's handsome, joyous face fills the screen of Sam's tv. "You're watching Doctor Who," I comment, unnecessarily. 

His cheeks look a bit rosier than usual. "It's an entertaining show."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do you long to be whisked away by a man in a blue box?"

He laughs. "Sometimes." There's a hint of longing in his exotic eyes, reminding me that his dangerous, tragic, peaceless life was thrust upon him, not chosen by him.

"Well, then," I grab an unusually long, colorfully striped scarf out of the air, "Your TARDIS awaits." I wrap the scarf around my neck and bow, gesturing towards the door.

A skeptical glance meets my gaze. Still, he stacks his books on his desk, places his now closed laptop beside them, turns off his tv. He smooths the red plaid of his flannel shirt, walks into the hallway. Where a vivid blue police box perches incongruously. Sam's face lights up, rendering him even more luminously gorgeous. "How did you . . . ?" He shakes his head in obvious amazement.

"Go in," I urge.

The interior is decked like it was during the David Tennant era. Beautiful, fantastical. Sam grins.

"Where to?" I ask. "We can go anywhere or anywhen!"

Dimples sparkle at me. "Alexandria."

I swallow. Wow is it difficult to focus while receiving the full force of that smile. "I'm assuming you don't mean Virginia."

Another laugh. A head shake, causing glorious hair to spin, haloing his chiseled features. "Egypt."

I frown. "Wouldn't you rather see the pyramids?"

"I don't mean Alexandria now." He bites the inside of his cheek. "Didn't you say 'anywhen'?"

My frown deepens. "You want to meet Cleopatra." So much for being interested in me. I force joviality into my face and voice. "She was a hottie. Not pretty, but" I whistle.

"I know." Sam examines my console illusion. "I mean, I've read that. But." He looks at me. "I would rather see the Library." I can hear the capitalization in his tone. Not to mention the respectful softening. Of course my scholarly crush would dream of visiting the doomed Library of Alexandria.

I bow again. "Your wish is my command." The grin that stretches my mouth is entirely, completely sincere. "Allons-y!"

*

I'm sure that the ancient library is magnificent, but I can't keep my eyes off my companion. Sam's visage glows with wonder as he wanders among the scrolls and manuscripts, avoiding the snoozing scholars (I put them all to sleep the moment we arrived). Every so often his long elegant fingers twitch, as if itching to touch, to pick up, to examine. He doesn't. Instead, he thrusts his hands in his pockets and moves on, quietly monologuing about all he sees and how it aligns with what he's researched. 

I almost wish we could stay, but "It's time." We, or rather Sam, will get trapped in this time if we stay longer than an hour. Archangel power only extends so far.

He nods. "Thank you. For bringing me here. It was" he pauses "spectacular." He closes his eyes, breathes in the smells of vellum, papyrus, ink. Sighs before following me into my imitation time machine.

Just before the fictional blue box fades into the familiar functional, stark, plainness of the Bunker hallway, he leans down to kiss my cheek.


	4. Panera

Castiel's POV:

It's rare that I find myself desperately longing for the power of flight I once took for granted. After all, my grace will replenish, my wings will regrow; there's no point dwelling on my current weakness.

Still, here I am.

A few weeks after Sam got his soul back, when I was eavesdropping on the brothers (like I did so often back then, perhaps sensing that invisibility would soon cease to be among my functions), I heard Sam expounding on his love for French cheeses, listing his favorites in a near perfect Parisian accent. I know now that Sam was teasing his brother, seeking the precise sputtering response he received: "I only care about how good cheese tastes on burgers." At the time, though, all I could think was that the young hunter had suffered so much and deserved to have anything he wanted.

Five minutes later, he returned to his laptop to find a fruit and cheese tray fresh from a Paris bistro atop his pile of lore books. (The only reason why it wasn't five seconds is because I wanted to wait until Dean headed outside to pollute his lungs). A scarlet-faced, stuttering, confused Sam thanked me in prayer form, looking up at the ceiling. "Thanks, Cas. I-I don't know how you heard that. Did-did I pray without realizing? Anyways, thank you. It looks delicious."

I gawked invisibly at this shy, self-conscious version of the cool-headed intellectual warrior who fought beside me during the (averted) apocalypse. That was the first time I realized my feelings for Sam were (very) different from my feelings for Dean.

If only I still had the ability to fly across the world in search of exotic gifts for Sam.

If only I could take Sam on trips around the world.

Take him back in time.

Like Gabriel.

Sam has not stopped talking about his trip to ancient Alexandria. And my archangel brother's smug expression has not faded. And I really need to stop fantasizing about driving an archangel blade through his vessel's heart. (It wouldn't kill him, but it would sure weaken him for awhile--even things up).

I just have to accept that I am incapable of taking Sam to early twentieth century India to meet Gandhi.

But, maybe I could take him somewhere else. Courting couples like to eat together, right?

*

"Wow," Sam looks around, stretching his long neck. "I have not been to a Panera in years. Not since college. I used to come with . . . ." He tenses, swallows.

"Jess," I supply. Sam has never really allowed himself to get over her death--perhaps thinking himself unworthy to forgive himself for his perceived guilt--so he's unconsciously built her into a flawless goddess. Which means that my powerful brother is not my only rival: I have to compete with a phantom Diana as well.

He nods. A moment later, though, his face clears into a grin. "I once asked Dean if he wanted to come here with me. His rant was epic!"

I chuckle, picturing my best friend's reaction to a restaurant serving salad, soup, and bread instead of cheeseburgers. "I can imagine."

"He had some choice words to say about rabbit food." Sam laughs as he loads up his plate at the salad bar.

I close my eyes for a moment, basking in the warm glow of his soul, sparkling in tandem with the brilliance of one of his increasingly rare open, toothy, joyful smiles. I silently vow to give him elation, happiness, exuberance, whenever and however I can.

*

Sam devours more than I've seen him eat in months. A plate piled high with greens and all manner of salad toppings, including, I notice, bacon bits. Two different flavors of soup. And plenty of fresh bread. More than once, he softly moans, closing his eyes in ecstasy. My vessel's nether regions are in full appreciation. 

It isn't until he takes his final, satisfied bite that I realize we've said scarcely a word to each other. Is that unusual?--Don't humans usually chatter during meals? This doesn't feel uncomfortable to me but I am not human and . . . .

"I'm so glad you suggested this." Earnest hazel eyes peer at me. "I didn't realize how much I needed a quiet meal away from everything."

I think I can feel the feathers on wings perking up.

"You know I love my brother--I'd do anything for him--but Dean cannot go five minutes without talking." He pauses, smirks. "Well, unless he's brooding, but somehow Dean manages to glower loudly."

The surprised laugh I'm hearing is mine.

"So," Sam concludes, "this was pleasant." He stands up, pulls his wallet out of his back pocket.

"I'll get it," I interject even before I actually remember that it's customary for the date inviter to pay. Somehow, it feels natural.

A wrinkle delves into Sam's high, intellectual forehead. "If you're sure." He hesitates, shredding his napkin. Frowns, shrugs. 

What's going on in that brilliant mind of his? "I don't have to."

A soft smile. Before he walks around the table to pull me into his arms. Oh. A hug. "I don't mind," he whispers.


	5. Nerdom

Gabriel's POV: 

Sam Winchester was a dewy-eyed, pretty-faced twenty-three-year-old when we first met. His lanky form, smooth skin, soft tenor all screaming to me that he was more of a boy than his six-five frame suggested. Still, I could see the darkness boiling beneath the seasoned hunter who was hiding behind an appearance of outward innocence. It fascinated me, caused my long-ignored wings to quiver with curiosity. 

Who was this kid who smelled faintly of demon but who was clearly utterly human?

Instead of leaving the area like I normally did upon catching the attention of hunters (the discovery that they couldn't kill me might have raised questions I had no interest in anyone answering), I spent days toying with this beautiful boy and his handsome brother. Small tricks to drive him mad, so I could learn of his instincts, abilities. Personality.

One evening, I watched him stomp away from the hotel room (where he and Dean had fought until both were hoarse of shouting and on the verge of trading blows). Behind him, the street lamps and traffic lights flickered off, leaving blackness in his wake. He was too busy muttering creative expletives about his brother to notice. But I almost forgot to stay invisible as I gaped, recognizing in this sweet, gorgeous young man the true vessel of my imprisoned brother.

Two days later, I faked my death, giving the hunters the illusion of a victory, vowing to never cross paths with them again. 

I managed to keep that pledge for a total of twelve months. 

*

A dozen years later, I'm still obsessively focused on the younger Winchester.

"'And there they brew a beer so brown that the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill'" Jack prances into the library, singing a familiar ditty.

"Is that from Fellowship?" I ask, recalling the memorable afternoon I spent with Tolkien and his BFF CS Lewis. I convinced them to discuss their thoughts of yours truly. They did admire me!

Jack nods, his eyes glowing with enthusiastic joy. "Yes. But they didn't have that song in the movie. They did have Bofur sing it in The Hobbit, though." He frowns. "For some reason." He pauses, adds. "It's in the Extended Edition."

My time as Asmodeus' special guest is suddenly seeming even longer. "They finally filmed The Hobbit? With Bofur singing?"

Jack grins. "They stretched it into three movies, too." His smile widens at my confusion. "Sam and I watched all of them last week."

Hmm. "Sam likes fantasy epics?" I was planning to take him to see all seven wonders of the ancient world, but a new idea is rooting in my mind.

Jack innocently, adorably, begins to list the fantasy novels and films he and Sam have read and watched together. His hair flops over one sparkling eye as he expounds on why Dumbledore is his favorite Harry Potter character.

I snap my fingers behind my back, so he won't realize I'm planning an illusion until the whole room transforms into a dim, smoky, pseudo-medieval tavern, complete with heavy wooden beams, dripping candles, a large fireplace, and, of course, a bar filled with dark, dusty bottles of potent alcohol. With a concluding wave of my hand, my jeans and leather jacket warp into the ensemble of the Merry Brandybuck, the LOTR character with whom I most closely identify (a mischief-maker who becomes a warrior!), including, of course, his yellow waistcoat and comfortable lack of footwear.

My nephew's already joyful face brightens still further, as he spins around, arms outstretched, taking in every detail of my creation.

"So," I ask, pulling a pint of ale out of thin air and taking a sip, "Elf, dwarf, man, or" I gesture at my new costume "hobbit?"

"Umm." His lips curve upward, his forehead creased in deliberation. He straightens, meets my eyes. "Elf!" He intones like he's just made a cheerful pronouncement.

"Okay." I twirl my fingers. 

Jack looks down, gasps, takes in his perfect reproduction of Orlando Bloom's green Legolas costume. He laughs, curls a lock of platinum wig. "I can't wait to show Sam!"

"Neither can I." My mutter is too low for the nephilim to hear. I'm hoping, longing, to see Sam's too often exhausted face light up.

*

A few minutes later, Dean wanders in, double takes, nearly drops his laptop. "What the f . . . ?"

"If it isn't our horselord!" I cry out, transforming Dean Winchester into Eomer, future king of Rohan.

He raises an eyebrow. "Horselord?"

I raise one back. "Bowlegs."

He shrugs, sets down his now conspicuous, anachronistic computer, swipes a dusky bottle to chug. "At least you nerds know how to party."

"Dean, have you seen my" Sam turns the corner, stops, stares "yardstick?" Hazel eyes blink, pink lips drop open.

"Come in, Sam. Have some grog." Eomer-Dean toasts his brother before turning to me. "Who's he going to be? Rudy hobbit?" He smirks.

I smirk back. "I think not. How about something a bit" I swirl both hands "grander."

Dark, formfitting attire, a silvery cloak, a long sword buckled onto his low-slung belt. Aragorn, in his Two Towers look (Viggo was sexiest in the middle film). Sam already has the wavy, dark, shoulder-length hair. 

I'm rewarded for my efforts with an effervescent smile. Followed by Sam walking around the room, examining my creation with clear appreciation. He ends his circuit in front of me. "This is impressive. I see elements from The Green Dragon, The Prancing Pony, and Edoras." His huffing grin is almost an exhilarated laugh. "It's beautiful."

I step closer to his lean form, his glistening soul. "You're b . . . ."

"Hey, Cas." Sam gazes over the shoulder of my way too short vessel. Apparently, my seraphim brother just marched in. What frustrating timing!

I clench my fists, squeeze my eyes shut. Settle my irrationally volatile emotions. It would be entirely unproductive (to the goal of winning Sam) to greet my innocent fellow angel with a withering glare. Face now calm, I spin around.

I needn't have bothered. Castiel's attention is focused on Sam to utter exclusion of everything and everyone else. Already huge eyes widen, blue irises glimmering with a hint of grace, pupils dilated. Azure feathers rustle, fluff, in an unconscious mating display. He licks, bites, his lips. "Hello, Sam," he manages, voice even deeper, raspier, than usual.

"I think you should be an elf, too." I hope no one notices my joviality is a bit forced.

Cas flinches, flicks his gaze to me. He really hadn't noticed that this room contains more that cosplaying Sam. "Gabriel," he greets me, impassively.

I wave an imaginary conductor's baton. Castiel's hair lengthens, his trench coat smooths into flowing robes, tips of his ears rise into points, a delicate crown nestles over the confused lines of his forehead.

"You're Elrond, dude." Dean betrays his knowledge of geeky Lord of the Rings, claps his best friend's shoulder.

Jack reverently fingers the fine, shimmery materiel of the elven garment. He murmurs, "Gorgeous." Glowing, guileless eyes turn to me. "Thank you, Uncle Gabriel. This is amazing."

I can't resist glancing up at Sam. He looks back down at me, a soft smile playing on his lips. "It really is."


	6. Omaha Zoo

Castiel's POV: 

I developed a taste for coffee when I was jumping from Biggerson's to Biggerson's, hiding myself and the angel tablet from Naomi. The flavor is lost on me (molecules) but I appreciate the distinctive smell, the heat of the mug, the swirling steam, the pleasant jolt of caffeine. The affect is stronger now that my grace is so much weaker--now that I am a bit less angel and almost akin to human.

I take a sip of the ultra strong brew both Winchester's favor, while watching Gabriel pour his own cup, sniff it, frown disgustedly. He meets my curious gaze with a mischievous half-smile, twirls one finger over his mug. At once, it is topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, and I can smell sugar, cocoa, cinnamon, vanilla, intermixed with the scent of coffee.

He carries his concoction over to the little table in the corner of the kitchen, lounges beside me. He manages to taste his drink without getting his face covered in sugary white foam. The perks of being an archangel. "You really love him," he says, conversationally. Only a flash of icy blue within the depths of his whiskey eyes hints at the seriousness of his comment.

"Yes." I have been certain of very little since Uriel's deception opened my eyes to the reality that much of what I thought true for eons was false. But I know that every feather on my wings quivers for Sam, every beat of my vessel's heart thumps for Sam, every spark of my grace ignites for Sam.

"I've been walking the earth continuously for two thousand years, and I spent much of time here even before then." He thoughtfully pulls a raspberry scone out of the ether, offers me half.

I take it. The pastry is crumbly, buttery. "You disappeared just after meeting with the Virgin Mary."

He smirks. "I had to discuss things with her future husband, first."

"Of course." Poor Joseph, so accepting, so protective, so honorable--so easy to forget. I'm glad he shares a heaven with courageous, sweet, strong Mary. They complement each other well.

Gabriel hides his fading smirk with a gulp of doctored coffee. "Anyway, I've been secretly watching vessel-bound angels for millennia. Human emotions are so intense. We feel everything so much more powerfully when we're in human vessels. It's so easy for angels to mistake kindness for affection, admiration for love, lust for romantic love, the love of a friend for the passion of a partner."

"You thought I was mistaken in my feelings." I narrow my eyes. "Or you hoped."

He solutes me with his mug. "As did you when it comes to me."

I return his solute. Distantly, I hear a door slam and bare feet stomping in our direction. Dean's awake.

*

Slap. Slam. Bang. How Dean manages to make placing his coffee mug, plate (piled high with eggs and bacon), and silverware on the table so loud, so forceful, is a mystery. "So," he mumbles around a mouthful of pork, "Does Sam know you two have been dating him?"

Gabriel and I exchange a glance.

He observes it, turns a little green. "This isn't some polyamory thing, is it? Because I don't think Sam is into threesomes."

"No!" We exclaim in unplanned, horrified unison.

"Hmm." Dean sips his (black) coffee. Based on the scent, he's added a splash of whiskey. Oh, Dean. "Just remember that I have a large supply of holy oil." This is coolly addressed to Gabriel. "And an angel blade," he adds, turning to me. Glacial green eyes promise that our decade of close, familial friendship will be forgotten should I be so unwise as to hurt Sam.

"Noted." Gabriel freezes in the process of stealing a strip of bacon.

I follow his line of sight. Sam has just slipped into the kitchen, fully dressed and ready to head out. Damp hair curls against tanned cheeks, brushing his freshly-shaved jaw. The buttons of his maroon plaid strain across his muscled chest. The vee of his black undershirt is cut low enough to give a glimpse of dark chest hair. A charcoal grey jacket stretches over the spread of his broad shoulders. He's carrying a pack.

"We have a bit of a drive if we're going to Omaha, so I thought we should leave early," he comments, meeting my gaping eyes.

I blink away guilty thoughts of that huge, beautiful body pressing, crushing my vessel into a mattress, big hands caressing me, narrow hips sinking between my legs . . . . Not working. I shake my head, force my head in a more innocent direction. "Good idea," I reply, standing up. "I want to see as much of the zoo as possible."

Gabriel and Dean exchange a surprised glance.

"The zoo?" Gabriel asks, clearly mentally congratulating himself on his ability to take Sam on far grander, more memorable, exotic dates.

"Aw, Sammy," Dean teases. "Are you going to see widdle animals?"

"Shut up, Dean." Sam's tone is mild. Clearly he isn't sharing my contemplation of bashing both our brothers' heads against the table. He turns to me. "I was thinking we should invite Jack. He's never been to the Omaha Zoo. Or any zoo. And I think he'd really like it."

There's no denying that. Jack would love observing all the varieties of creatures, especially the ones he's read about. And, of course, I want to please him, to spend time with him. He's my son. But.

Dean speaks up. "I was going to show Jack how to work on the Impala today. He's been asking."

Sam nods, thoughtfully. "That's right, he has." He smiles at me. "We can take him another time."

I suspect my answering smile is filled with relief. I wonder if he notices.

As I'm following Sam out the door, Dean grabs my arm. "You owe me one," he mutters.

*

Sam glows as we wander through the zoo, a soft smile playing on his lips. He tells me obscure details about the animals we pass, informs me of bizarre uses for their bones, fur, teeth, feathers, talons, scales. I respond with tales of the first reptiles, birds, mammals--how they behaved, what other angels told me was the rationale behind their creation.

Every so often, our arms or hands brush against each other, sending sparks of fiery pleasure zinging through me.

A same-sex couple with a little girl walk past us. One of the men glances between Sam and me, smiles, winks. His husband notices this and us, gives me a thumbs up. Did the temperature rise a few degrees? And why are my eyes wet?

"Oh, the aquarium! I've read about this." Sam speeds up, his excitement carrying his long legs several feet ahead my vessel's much shorter limbs.

I catch up to him in the aquarium tunnel. He's looking up at the fish swimming overhead, his mouth dropped open in awe, hazel eyes reflecting the blue from the giant tank all above and around us, dark hair framing his face. One long-fingered hand reaches up, as if itching to stretch through the glass and pet a nearby turtle. "Impressive," he murmurs, deep voice rumbling. "Gorgeous."

"Indeed." I'm not referring to the craftsmanship of this underwater tunnel. I am far more struck by my father's craftsmanship in the formation of stunning Sam Winchester. And when did my voice get so breathy? Wasn't it more gruff? And. At what point did I move so close to Sam that I feel heat radiating from his body, that I can feel the pounding of his pulse? That I can feel the warmth from his breath?

I raise my eyes. He's already looking down at me, softly, affectionately. We're close enough to kiss. It would be so easy to rise to my tiptoes, press my mouth to his curving pink lips. 

I back away with a gasp, blinking rapidly, forcing my grace to calm my racing heart.


	7. Midnight

Gabriel's POV:

I find the brothers on the roof of the Bunker, sharing a case of beer, chatting quietly, admiring the stars. It's clear that they do this often, from the presence of two lawn chairs, a crate for empty bottles (likely at Sam's insistence), and the ashtray near Dean's feet (almost certainly also at Sam's insistence).

When I step out of the trapdoor, their heads turn in perfect sync to assess the intrusion to their brotherly time, ascertain if I am a threat, if I bring news of a threat, if I am a welcome friend or an irritating interloper. After a brief moment, they exchange a glance, silently informing each other of their conclusions.

"Hey, Gabe," Sam greets me, shapely lips curving upward.

That slight smile affects me like a jolt of grace. I bound across the flat concrete roof, bow to the man who holds my metaphorical heart and nonexistent soul, produce a bouquet of wildflowers to present to him with a flourish.

Sam accepts the flowers, directs a bemused frown to his brother. Dean raises an eyebrow. Sam looks down, studies the scuffs on his boots; his soul curls up, shrinking in discomfort, embarrassment. 

Dean rolls his eyes as he tosses his (empty) bottle into the half-full crate. "I'm going to make sure Jack hasn't burned up the kitchen. He's baking cookies." A flash of consternation races over his handsome face. He gulps. "I definitely need to get back in there."

Sam stands. "I could . . . ."

Dean shakes his head. "Stay. Enjoy the night." He brushes past me, eyebrows raised, steely green eyes expressing that he is giving me a chance with his brother--that I shouldn't waste it, that I should be grateful, that he will find a way to kill me should I upset Sam.

How does a mere human manage to be so terrifying?

"Here, take these with you." Sam runs after Dean, hands him the flowers. "They need to be put in water. Maybe put them on the table?" He bites his lip, glances at me. "They're very ornamental. They would look nice there." Is he blushing?

Please be blushing.

*

After the trapdoor slams shut behind Dean, Sam turns to me with a sigh. "So, what is it Dean wants you to talk to me about?" He must notice my expression, because he adds, "I saw your little subterfuge. You were practically exchanging a secret handshake. So, what is it--what does Dean want you to tell me that he can't tell me himself?"

Sam's face is deliberately devoid of all emotion, but his soul is bouncing in agitation: his brilliant mind rapidly invents, contemplates, discards, replaces theories on what an archangel could inform him (presumably about himself) that his own brother could not. It's clear from the steady sinking of his soul that each idea is darker, more depressing, more horrifying than the last. No one understands horror better than the man who spent two hundred years being tortured by my dear brother Lucifer.

I swiftly interrupt these obviously disturbing thoughts. "It's nothing like that. Dean's just giving me an opportunity to spend time with you."

"Oh." His eyes flash to mine, then away. "Okay."

I decide to give him time to process the conclusions he must be finally reaching. "So," I ask, changing the subject, "you and Dean like stargazing?"

He tilts his head (displaying his long neck), gazing up at the bestarred glory of the night sky. "Our lives are so chaotic. But the night sky is so vast, so timeless. It's patterns are predictable. Unchanging. Or, more accurately, they change so slowly as to seem unchanging." His eyes halt pensively on the half-full moon hanging low in the sky. "It's peaceful," he concludes, "calming."

"Hmm." I follow Sam's gaze to the half-shadowed silvery orb. "Would you like to see it from another angle?"

He looks down at me. "Like from a mountain or something?"

I wink. "Or something." I grab his hand and, with a flutter of wings, we're peering up at the earth from the surface of the moon.

There's a gasp beside me. "Is this an illusion?' Sam's eyes glow blue in the light emanating from the earth (earthlight?).

I squeeze the hand that's still in mine. "This is real."

Sparkling eyes widen in wonder. "How?" he breathes. "How are we . . . ? We should be dying."

"I encased us in a bubble of grace." I grin up at him. "There's enough oxygen for all kinds of activities." I waggle my eyebrows.

He laughs. "This is a dream I didn't even know I had." He drops my hand, crouches on the ground, running his fingers through the dry, rocky dust. He pockets one small stone. When he rises back to his full height, he studies the tiny blue marble that his home planet. "So beautiful," he murmurs.

I nod. "Yeah. Dad knew what he was doing when he created that."

Sam is still chuckling when he begins to point out landmasses.

*

Back on the roof a couple hours later, Sam stares at the moon, shakes his head, fingers the stone in his pocket, bites his lip, smiles. "I don't even know what to say," he informs me, pushing his luscious hair off his face.

"Don't say anything." My reply is barely above a whisper. There is just enough light to admire his broad shoulders, narrow waist, impossibly long legs. Not to mention, his glittering eyes, strong jaw, defined cheekbones. My vessel is suddenly short of breath. I can't resist wrapping my wings around his form, pulling his face down, pressing my lips to his. Every one of my feathers stands on end. His lips are slightly chapped but still so soft, so full. He smells of old books and leather and expensive shampoo. His hair feels as silky as it looks. His firm muscles are tense beneath my questing fingers.

Tense?

The man in my arms is frozen, unresponsive. Uninterested.

I untangle myself, step back.

Sam's voice is sweet, soft, empathic. Even as he breaks my heart. "Gabe, you're very charming and attractive and--and impressive, but . . . ."

I smile, bitterly. "But you don't see me that way."

His eyes drop to the concrete. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." I spare myself further pain by flying off, materializing a second later in front of Castiel.

He's sitting cross-legged on his (unnecessary) bed, solemnly reading one of Sam's paperbacks. The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. "Hello, Gabriel," he greets me. His tone could not be calmer had we come across each other in a serene, sun-blanketed park.

"You win," I inform him. "Sam is yours. Call me in about two hundred years. I might be over him by then." I'm in Rio before Cas can formulate a response.


	8. Private Dinner

Castiel's POV:

I set The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe on the desk near my bed. The story was quite engaging, although the children's foray into an alternate universe occasionally reminded me disturbingly of my own recent experiences with one. Are other worlds always ruled by destructive dictators? Still, I'll have to ask Sam for the next book in the series--I would like to know when and how those kids return to Narnia.

A clatter of boots merging with the deep tones of male voices. I unconsciously sit up straighter. The Winchesters are in the hallway.

"Rejecting a full-powered archangel?" Dean chuckles. I can almost hear him shaking his head. "Only you, Sammy."

"You would have rejected him, too!" Sam's voice is impatient. It's not hard to picture the irritated expression that must be pulling his face.

"That's because I'm straight." Dean sounds smug, clearly of the opinion that he's won this little sibling tussle. Would Dean have been interested in a relationship with Gabriel had his sexuality been a bit less rigidly heterosexual?

"Whatever, Dean." I'm positive Sam just rolled his eyes. He apparently views further argumentation as a waste of time. This is confirmed when he adds, "I'm going to bed." A single set of footfalls thuds past my closed door before slowly fading into the distance. A few seconds later, I hear a door open and close.

Sam's in his room, getting ready for bed. He could be unbuttoning his shirt right now, revealing the grey v-neck he's wearing beneath it. Soon, he'll take that off, too. I've rarely gotten a glimpse of Sam's chest (both Winchesters are surprisingly modest for a pair of handsome men with little interest in social niceties) but I know it's lean and tanned and toned, with dark hair curling across it.

Are my trousers tight?--And when did I start fluffing my feathers?

Knock, knock, knock. "Cas, you in there?" Dean's voice. Right, I only heard Sam continuing to walk down the hall.

I hurriedly traverse my room to open my door. "Hello, Dean."

Dean pushes past me, stands by my desk with his burly arms crossed. "Tomorrow, I'm taking Jack to a movie."

"He's been wanting to see Aquaman." Jack loves superhero movies.

"So," Dean continues, "It will be just Sam and you in the Bunker." He gives me a pointed look. "We have all the ingredients for his favorite meal. Here, I'll write down the recipe." He lifts a pen and notepad off my desk, fills the top page with his precise handwriting, rips it off, hands it to me.

"Thank you." Did Dean just plan a date for his brother and me?

He saunters to the door, comments, "I don't want to hear anything about your extracurricular activities." He tosses something in my direction without looking at me.

An unopened bottle of lube falls at my feet. 

My face burns. But my feathers flutter excitedly.

*

Dean's meticulous directions walk me through the creation of Chicken Cordon Bleu and a (presumably) complementary side salad. I receive a curious enjoyment from flattening the chicken breasts--an appreciation, I suspect, of my own strength, of the reminder that I am not weak, powerless. I find chopping vegetables for the salad satisfying as well. Maybe I just like preparing food for Sam.

Speaking of whom . . . .

"Something smells amazing," Sam declares, sniffing the air as he wanders into the kitchen, carrying two books and his tablet. "Wow, Dean, what's the occasion?--You only make that when . . . ." He stops, staring at me, noticing my lack of similarity to his brother.

"Dean took Jack to see Aquaman," I supply. I can't help the hopeful widening of my eyes as I gaze up at him. Will he like my meal? Will he appreciate my attempt? Will any of this make him want to escort me to his room so he can perform acts on me about which I can never tell my angelic siblings? My wings quiver in trepidation as I set the plates of food on the table (which is centered with a bouquet of wildflowers in a can that once held cherry pie filling). 

Sam deposits his books and tablet on a counter, sinks into his seat at the table. "You made this?" Is it possible for an ultra-masculine hunter in his mid-thirties to sound breathy? "It looks amazing!"

It is, perhaps, good that my wings are invisible to humans given the way I'm preening them. "Thank you, Sam." He's reaching for his fork when I realize what is missing from the table. "Would you like a beer?"

"Actually, I have something else in mind that would complement this meal much better." He hops up, jogs over to a high cupboard, produces a wine bottle. He hands it to me. "I was saving this for a special occasion, but" a shy smile "something tells me this is one." He locates a pair of dusty wine goblets in another cupboard, rinses them out (thoroughly), brings them to the table.

"Let me." This evening is about me pampering Sam, not the other way around. He hands me the bottle and a device for removing its cork. I don't mind that it takes me a few tries to figure out how exactly to open the wine: Sam's affectionate chuckles, suggestions, sparkling eyes feel like a prize, a reward, a priceless gift. By the time I fill our glasses, I'm as delightfully fuzzy as my feathers. It's a bit like getting drunk felt (on the rare occasions when I managed to imbibe enough alcohol to become inebriated).

*

An hour later, our plates are empty and the bottle nearly so. Sam's cheeks are rosy, his eyes even brighter. But the steadiness of his hands reminds me that his tolerance is unusually high (and that he might be a little too dependent on the substance). He's cheerfully buzzed but not particularly impaired.

"I want to tell you something," he says, after placing our dishes in the sink. His fingers twist around each other, betraying a touch of nervousness.

I pause before agreeing. I'd been about to make a very similar conversation opener.

"When we met, my veins were brimming with demon blood." He looks down, biting his lip, shame over his former addiction written in the tense lines of his body. "You could sense it, couldn't you?"

I shudder at the memory. I'd known that Sam Winchester was a demon-blood addict, Azazel's chosen, Lucifer's vessel, but it was still a shock to come face to face with him, to feel, almost see, the darkness and malevolent power swirling within him. Months passed before I was able to look past all of that--to view the empathy, compassion, selflessness, beauty that is Sam. "I was very rude."

"It was deserved." Sam shrugs. I suspect that, with his Winchester self-hatred, Sam would consider far worse mistreatment than rudeness deserved as well. "The thing is" Sam blows his breath out "when I was hopped up on blood, I was almost a demon. I could see things the way they could. Kind of." He closes his eyes briefly. "I could see you. The real you. Wings, halo, fiery grace. The demon in me want to run or fight. But I" hazel eyes meet mine "I was awestruck. You're so beautiful."

My mouth is open, my eyes wide, my feathers stiffly alert. 

"So, when I tell you," he continues, "I fell in love with you at first sight, I want you to be certain it was you I fell for, not Jimmy." His lips quirk upward. "Your vessel is very handsome, but never doubt that you are the one I want." His face is very serious. "And I would want you no matter what face you wore."

When did I stand up? When did I move so close to him? I swallow, look up (and up) into the soft tenderness of his eyes. "What brought this on?'

A half-smile. "This is our third date. I figured it was time."

"You knew?" He seemed so oblivious.

He shakes his head. "I didn't put the pieces together until Gabriel . . . you know." He takes my hand. "I should have. But I didn't think it could be true--that you could possibly be interested in me."

I interrupt this self-deprecation by kissing him. "I've loved you for years." I kiss him again. "Someday I will have to thank Gabriel for giving me the courage to court you." Someday when he's over Sam. I have no idea how long that will take because I am certain I will never be over him.

I lose all train of thought because--all at once--I'm sitting on the table, with Sam pressed against me, rubbing our groins together as he pulls at my clothes while devouring my mouth.


End file.
